My Man
by IconofSelfIndulgence
Summary: "It's cost me a lot, but there's one thing that I've got. It's my man..." Thomas' loyalty is questioned when Kemal Pamuk scams Philip, "The Duke," drug overlord of London. - ThomasxPhilip(DoC), ThomasxJimmy, ThomasxEdward, ThomasxPamuk - Future/Modern Setting - Warning: graphic violence, graphic depictions of sexual activities, rape, drug use, underage sex, among other things...


_It's cost me a lot, but there's one thing that I've got..._  
_**It's my man.** _  
_Cold and wet, tired you bet, but all that I soon forget with my man._  
_He's not much for looks, and no hero out of book is my man._  
_Two or three girls has he that he likes as well as me, but I love him!_  
_I don't know why I should; he isn't good. He isn't true. He beats me, too._  
_What can I do?_

Long nights caused large headaches in the morning. His alarm echoed in the small, empty room, the acoustics making it sound at least ten times louder than normal. His fingers curled into a tight fist, and he slammed it against the top of the bloody thing. The force sent it off the side table and onto the floor, where he was certain something shattered. His sigh was filled with exhaustion and irritation. Hangovers were the absolute worst, especially when they were paired with a hit or two of some really fucked up pills meant for veterinary purposes. (_"Dog aspirins? You sure we should consume these?"_) He couldn't even remember getting home last night, not that it mattered really, as long as he _was_ home.

Slender fingers brushed through ebony hair as he lay on his back, eyes squinting from the scintillating light peaking out from the broken blinds of his broken window. For a moment, he lay silently, listening to the whistle of the window from the cracked glass. It was another day, another godforsaken day where he would go unnoticed in the crowd, where everyone and everything would continue on with their happy little lives, and he would be alone. He closed his eyes and cracked a smirk, rubbing his hand down his face. What did it matter? They certainly didn't matter, not to him.

Slowly he got out of bed, scratching his lower back. He was shirtless, and he wondered how he lost his shirt when he stared at the mirror across from his bed. He would admit he was a bit of a narcissist, enjoying staring at his own reflection. Ten years ago, he would have marveled at seeing himself without shirt, able to show off his porcelain body to the younger people. Now he looked almost sickly pale, his stomach concaving from lack of proper nourishment; it wasn't easy being poor. He licked over his chapped lips, taking note of their dark red hue in the mirror. His sharp cheekbones, once given him enticing definition, now made his face look gaunt, and he mourned the loss of his beauty.

"Wot day is it?" He asked the paused and added, "Wot _time_ is it?" He hooked a finger into his lower lip and pulled it down to examine his teeth. He took pride in keeping them pearly white, in spite of his health problems. He smiled. All of them were accounted for.

His clock made some sort of static-y noise before chiming up:

"It is eight-eleven in the morning on June 17th, 2021."

He grimaced. Why the hell had he set his alarm in the first place? His brows furrowed, and he turned. Wait. Something was familiar about the seventeenth—

"Fuck me."

That was the signature phrase of Thomas Barrow's life.

He jumped in the shower, smelling the odor of the dirty brown water, his headache slightly mitigating with the coolness water. Thomas ran his hands through his hair, over his face, trying to remember the details that he heard months ago about this exact day. "Ugh, shite." He growled, lowering his head, letting the water just drench him completely.

After the shower, he gelled back his hair in the mirror. Some strands fell from their lovely main and rested against his forehead, which almost seemed like a metaphor for his anarchistic life. Thomas rolled his pale blue eyes in the mirror and tried slicking the hairs back again to no avail. Cheap shit. He sighed, reaching for his old toothbrush. He brushed slowly, in no rush in spite of the importance of this day. It was still too fucking early in the morning to bother with anything anyway.

Though maybe it was silly to wear a white suit. Thomas marveled at the way it covered the imperfections of his body, humming in approval at the attire. He'd gotten this jacket and trousers for a _steal_ at one of the thrift shops. The waistcoat was the odd piece out, but the gold paisley went well with the white. Hell, it almost made it look like he had some money. He smiled, remembering when he bought it. (_"Makes me look sharp, dun'it?"_) He gently took hold of said open waistcoat, humming as he modeled it. He wiggled his eyes and winked at his reflection. Thirty-five, and he still got it.

His second attempt to slick his hair back was also thwarted, and he sighed heavily at his mirror-self, eyes narrowing at those blue hues gazing back at him. "Imagine you could afford sumthin' decent." He said to it, scoffing. The other Thomas only mimicked him, which made him roll his eyes. "Jus' like back then…"

It hadn't always been this way. No, not in the slightest. He'd had money once, and a fucking lot of it. He was the son of a Baptist preacher, a big named guy who went all across Europe and the fucking world, spewing the hatred of a God that made its people afraid. But Thomas hadn't complained; he was happy and rich. Anything he wanted he just _got_. He and his three other siblings were the princes and princess of their parents, worshipped almost like gods themselves. Though, his mum died from cancer when he was sixteen, and everything went downhill from there. They were all jealous of the attention he got from his dad. Hell, he was being set up to be the next preacher in the family, not that he really ever wanted it, considering he was the secret heathen.

Getting kicked out was rough. You barely heard about that kind of shit back then. You got a gay kid 2002? Shake his hand, he's a member of society—well, not for your fucking neighborhood religious freaks. They still couldn't understand that it was a part of fucking _nature._ His older brother and sister had gotten tired of his shit, his sneaking out and lying, and framed him. His father caught him in the living room with a mate balls-deep inside of him. _("You fucking little cunt! How _dare _you! You are not my son! My son would never be _foul!") Needless to say, he was lucky to have the time to go up t his room and grab his shit before he left. He hadn't turned back since, not that any of them had contacted_ him_ either. It didn't matter; he certainly didn't fucking care.

Though he had been alone ever since. Not always, no—of course not. But mostly.

He'd always known he was gay, too. His mum used to watch old films, and he'd end up watching them with her when they were on telly. He'd seen the beauty of Ian McKelle, of Patrick Stewart (seriously wanted to kiss that bald of his), and there was that bloke who played Caligula in _I, Claudius_ that made him writhe in the sheets at night. But it wasn't until secondary school when he actually got to do anything.

A young man named Edward Courtenay was his first. The boy was an _absolute nutter_ though. He was the rich kid at school, coming from some old money. All the little pricks picked on him for it, though, because why was _he_ going to some public school and not some poncy academy or boarding school? Thomas initially didn't care, but one day he had seen a real shiner on the kid's face, and it made his light eyes brighten. He realized then how good looking the curly-haired boy was, and he began to shadow him, watching him in class and the hall. He'd just gotten kicked out, so he wasn't really in his right state of mind. But they found each other, and for a while it was good.

* * *

"_Wassa'matter, Eddie? Wot, can't call for Daddy here to come help you?"_

_Thomas stopped mid-step when he heard that. He glanced down the alley; it was after school, and they had cornered Courtney not too far away from campus. His hand became a fist, but he waited to see what the victimized boy would do._

_He took a punch to the face._

_Thomas sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. If no one helped this poor sod, he wouldn't make it to the end of semester. "Oy!" He entered the alleyway, dropping his bag down and rolling up his sleeves. "Why don' you lot take on someone your own bloody size? Should I remind you that you can't cry for your Mum, too, Gray?" _

_The lead aggressor froze in his tracks and met Thomas' eyes. _

_Edward stood over him as he curled into a ball, hugging his stomach from the blows he'd received. He was silent, just gazing at him, a bewildered expression on his face. "Why did you do that?" He asked, finally, kneeling down to wipe some blood away from Thomas' lip. The wounded boy made the mistake of looking up, because he got lost in those eyes. _

"_Cos I've seen it happenin' for too long," Thomas said, instinctively leaning into his touch, and with the other's help sat against the brick wall. Edward sat across from him, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Why don't you fight back? You can't – you can't jus' let people push you around." He paused, glancing up at the darkening sky. _

"_I've been pushed around all my life," Edward responded weakly, bringing his knees up to his chest. "My brother Jack has made himself family favorite, and I've been cast aside because I'm a disappointment." He rested his chin against his arms. _

"_You're not a disappointment. Don't let them make you into one." Thomas instantly responded, snapping back to him. He knew what being a disappointment was like, and he was almost certain Edward had no idea what it was like. But he quickly relaxed when he saw tears in those haunted eyes. Maybe he was wrong after all._

_He certainly hadn't been expecting being pushed against the stall of a twenty-four hour Tesco's bathroom. Edward's lips met his, and the other's hands were tenderly rubbing his wounds. He gasped and grabbed at that curly hair, pressing their foreheads together, feeling extremely awkward and new at this. Sure, he'd watched enough porn on the internet to get a good idea, but it was different actually living it. Edward's clumsy hands reached into his trousers, and he came so hard that he saw stars when it was all said and done. _

_They shared a fag, sitting on the roof of the flat building that Thomas lived in with his foster mum. Edward smiled after taking a drag of the cigarette, passing it off to Thomas. "You almost make me believe you, you know." _

_He raised his brow. "Oh?"  
_

"_Yeah. When you say those things." The smile seemed empty. Thomas' heart ached, and he placed a hand on Edward's knee, squeezing it reassuringly._

* * *

They had been very much in love and spent the next few weeks together in a blissful blur. Or maybe _Thomas_ had been very much in love, and Edward was using him as an escape from his sad sad world. Those precious eyes sucked him right in, though, latching onto his soul and keeping him prisoner. He'd been so blind to everything and had missed the signs. Edward killed himself within the month, slitting his wrists behind the bleachers of the football field, and Thomas blamed himself because he should have known why. He'd been given a letter that he never read, and they whispered their condolences and cried in their feigned sorrow. But he knew that no one gave a shit about Edward except for him. He tried not to care about anyone again, because he wouldn't repeat that—he _couldn't_ repeat that.

But love laughed at him instead.

Three long years later, Thomas dropped out of university. He was nineteen and stupid, and even though his "friends" (as if he _really_ considered William and Tom friends) warned him that he would have a hard time getting a job if he didn't finish his degree, he didn't care. Because _he_ knew he could charm anyone into giving him anything. It had worked so far, so why not now? He interviewed with a lot of places, but the ideal job he was set on was being a teller at a high-end bank. He knew if he could work up the ranks, he'd be set for life. So, he cleaned up rather nicely and strolled in as if he owned the place.

There he met Philip, who was on the hierarchy of the bank at the mere age of twenty-five. _("My father has a lot of connections.")_ Thomas didn't get the job, but he did snag Phil. They made out like teenagers in the back of his Audi. It was the most passionate car sex he'd ever had, slamming his back against the horn, alarming old ladies and little children as he came hard. They started seeing each other more frequently.

And then Philip turned out to be a gangster.

Yes. Really. Fucking came to Thomas' flat covered in blood, crying and sobbing over the fact that he had to kill a man because his dad said so. Apparently, he dealt drugs among _other_ things that Thomas really didn't want to know about. They somehow lasted for a year, but in that time Thomas got hooked on heroin and sex and all kinds of bad shit. He was rich and unhappy and fucking crazy—

So he cut it off before it could get any worse. The only problem was that leaving Phil meant he had no income, had no drugs, and had no life. So his only salvation was that vile man who loved him so very much, and out of the kindness of his heart (more like after Thomas groveled outside his place for three hours) he employed Thomas to do his dirty work.

He also decided to be a monumental douchebag and also gave him heroin every time a job went well, feeding into Thomas' addiction, making him even more dependent on him. Even after they'd been separated for nearly a year, Thomas still found himself tied to Philip (and to his bed.) He became a beacon of hope, a devil and master, latching onto him with his cloven feet.

But for a brief time, Thomas broke away. He forced himself to because one morning, after too many years, he woke up and gave himself a hard look in the mirror and the scrawny, pathetic man said to him "what the fuck are you doing with your life?" He got a job at local coffee shop. He forced himself to go to a rehabilitation center. Thomas was going to get his life back together, because he was getting closer and closer to thirty and there was little hope that he was going to make it if he continued his sinful ways.

Months passed, and he felt better. No more itching, no more shaking and crying and _oh god—Phil—please I need a fucking hit. _ He even made friends on the job. There was little Daisy who made the pastries in the back with Mrs. Patmore, and there was a lovely woman by the name of Gwen who worked the register alongside him most days. Ethel was the new girl, and she had to schlep around and clean. She complained most of the time, and that's why Thomas liked her the most. They were also notorious for taking smoking breaks when there was a lull in customers. He was happy for the most part. He had a life now. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

And then _he_ walked in. Fuck, he hadn't even wanted a coffee, but Thomas was too busy staring at the bulge in his biking shorts to realize what he was asking. Blond and gorgeous shyly asked where the bathroom was; he'd been cycling in the area and needed to pee. Why that turned Thomas on was still a mystery (and Jimmy had laughed at him with a cute little giggle when he relayed the story months later). Instead of showing him the bathroom, Thomas blurted out, "Did you know your hair is bloody _perfect_?"

Of course he did. But he found Thomas endearing and smiled, and the once drug-addict had to control himself or else he'd be blushing like a virgin. He led the cycler to the employee's bathroom, because it was nicer and cleaner. He stood outside of it because he was nervous and because the cycler _obviously_ couldn't find his way back out down the hallway. When he came out, he smiled again at Thomas…

* * *

"_Did you know you have the prettiest eyes I've ever seen?"_

_Thomas stared at him, mouth agape. Fuck—no—wait—this was really happening right now? Pinch him, he's dreaming. He couldn't be talking about Thomas, whose eyes were dull and old, who was probably ten years this guy's senior. He opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again, stuttering and looking like the bloody fool he was. _

"_I – I –" Every word he learned in school escaped him. Every single word in the English language just slipped out of his ears, draining his brain of any form of communication. And thus he stared._

_The blond laughed and asked him out on a date. _

_Thomas felt extremely out of place in the Italian restaurant, sitting across from Jimmy Kent. He was twenty-two and working on his Masters' degree in biochemical engineering. Thomas had no idea what that even _meant_, but it sounded so intelligent and important and this guy was so out of his league. On top of that, he was kind and lovely and the way he kissed the palm of Thomas' hand when they sat in the taxi made his heart flutter. He was a true romantic, bringing Thomas out to the river to enjoy the view and talked with him some more. _

_He couldn't tell him about his life, though, because all he had to say was that my ex-boyfriend was a drug-dealer and a killer and got me hooked on heroin and I almost killed myself twice but then pulled my life together and my parents never loved me and the only friend I had killed himself. Instead he lied about where he saw himself in five years, made up some stupid story about maybe going back to school and getting a degree in business. Jimmy was so kind, though, and took his hand and told him that he was smart and funny and witty and everything inside of him screamed no—you're wrong—I'm vile and evil and rotting from the inside out._

_Jimmy brought flowers to their second date. They moved in together after two months. Every morning, Jimmy would wake him up with a kiss to his head and tell him how beautiful he was. Every morning, the bed was warm beside him, and the cup of tea (Earl Grey, two sugars, light cream) in his hands made him smile big while he watched Jimmy cook breakfast. He eventually told Jimmy everything while they cuddled on their couch after a night of drinking and sappy Hallmark movies. _

"_Let's get away from here," Jimmy said one day, six months later. He wanted to get his PhD in the States anyway. "Thomas, you and I should travel the world. Settle somewhere new, be other people. Go where no one knows us…"_

_It sounded way too good to be true. So Thomas said yes._

_A car hit Jimmy three days after his graduation. Thomas should have seen it coming, should have known that _something _would destroy his happiness. He was an absolute wreck, and the only thing that could console him was…_

"_I heard a terrible, terrible thing happened…" Philip cooed as he ran his fingers through Thomas' locks. "How unfortunate."_

* * *

Thomas _knew_ Philip had been behind it.

Thomas didn't care anymore.

Three more years later. Three longer years later, Thomas found himself in this very room, feeling so very sick – inwardly, anyway. He pushed Philip away, kept him at arm's length, but made sure to keep him close enough to keep him sated. He worked all sorts of odd jobs, doing this and that, letting Philip direct him like a little robot car. He was tired of this. Tired of everything.

It was June seventeenth.

He grabbed a book – Marketing for Dummies. Honestly, he was trying. Jimmy's loss had inspired him to better himself. He put a cigarette in between his lips and fell back on his couch, staring up at the small print. After reading a chapter, he walked into the kitchen and slathered a piece of bread with some jam. As he ate it, he glanced through the contacts on his mobile. He picked one and placed the small slab of glass against his ear. It was a nice phone—one of those new brands; Philip had given it to him for a job well done.

"Kemal," He said, mouth full, as he made his way back to the living room. "S'Tom. Yeah, G'mornin', sweetheart," He dropped onto the couch again and rolled up his sleeve. "Yeah – You tol' me to give ya a call on the seventeenth. Low and behold, luv. It hath come."

"I didn't say to call before nine in the _fuckin'_ morning, Thomas. Christ."

"Didn't know you Turks believed in Christ," Thomas retorted, pulling out a small suitcase from the box of his coffee table. He placed it atop and opened it, grabbing a cylindrical syringe. He glanced at the amount of cartridges left and sighed. One left. Maybe that was good for two fucking hits. Fucking great. It was good he was talking to Pamuk, then.

Kemal Pamuk was an associate of Philip's. He worked for some type of underground organization for – Thomas really didn't care. He'd do anything for his next payment. Make him sell guns, drugs, whatever. He'd do anything but kill a man. Anyway, Pamuk was of Turkish decent with a golden complexion and dark and mysterious eyes. One time he'd had a threesome with him and Philip. Though, Thomas remembered bitterly, it ended with him being left tied up and unsatisfied on the bed as the two rich _fucks_ left for dinner. He was sensing some sort of patterns with punishment – and he was apparently fuckin' glutton for it.

"Would you believe that there are many Turks who believe in Christ?" Kemal's voice sounded much more alert now on the other side of the line. He chuckled into Thomas' ear, a soft, soothing song to make this morning worth it all. "You are always so very fun to speak with, Thomas. Perhaps I shall take you out to dinner some time…"

He was stalling.

Fuck that. Thomas wanted to know _why._

"We both know how that'd end up, luv," Thomas said with some sort of regret in his tone as he rubbed his pale skin with an alcohol pad. "Though… I'll consider it if you're willin' to pay. So wot's this all about?"

"I'll consider it, çiçeğim." Kemal yawned. "So… Our dear Philip has this shipment he needs to sell by the Thames. You're going to –" He laughed as Thomas groaned into his ear. "I assume you know what to do. Receive the money and bring it to me."

"You?" Thomas pressed the cylinder against his arm, feeling a small needle press against his skin. "Oh, I don't think Philly'll like tha' much." He smirked. "Wot am I supposed ta'be givin' anyway?"

"Ah, yes. Good question, Thomas." Kemal sounded tired. He sighed. "Give me a moment."

"Take yer time, luv," Thomas replied, pressing the release button against the cylinder. The needle pierced his skin and injected the white liquid into it. He exhaled a soft breath and relaxed his head back as coolness overcame him. He slumped into the couch, closing his eyes, nearly dropping the mobile in the process.

The drug was called _Ripozi _– named after the Esperanto word for "relax". It was a relaxant, probably meant to calm anxiety or something. He'd stopped heroin for good, because the nosebleeds were too much of a hassle, plus the bloating just did not do anything for his complexion. (And it made him out of his_ fucking_ mind.) He'd gotten into a fight and nearly overdosed on his last hit of heroin, and it ended with a broken beer bottle speared through his left hand. The scar was nasty, and he wore a glove to cover it, hiding the marred disfigurement from the world. He hadn't the money for plastic surgery…

"You there, Thomas?" Kemal's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah," He mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Sorry – spaced out."

"… they're saying that shit's terrible for you."

"So is every other fuckin' drug, ain't it? Just 'cos ye've got self control don't mean the rest o'us do." He hissed, "Philly-boy does that eye drop shit. Makes 'im higher than a fuckin' artifice."

"… Philip is …" Kemal hesitated, "Not himself these days."

He laughed. Hard. "As if I didn' know tha' already?"

"I mean – he's _worse_, Thomas."

"Good. Glad I don' fuckin' speak to 'im anymore."

Pamuk cleared his throat. Thomas felt himself nodding off again. He was so tired… "As I was saying, Thomas… My man, Evelyn, will give the bag to you."

"Evelyn?" Thomas asked, snapping out of his stupor, "I thought he was one of your poncy friends. Never expected 'im to be in this business…"

"He is my closest friend, and he supports my endeavors… Even if he does not approve. This is nothing terrible. It won't harm him. He won't even know what's in the bag." Thomas could hear the smile in his voice. Bastard. So he was probably fucking Evelyn, or he'd gotten Evelyn addicted to something. Thomas felt bad for the guy; they'd met several times before at events Phil took him to when they were still together.

"An' does Evelyn have my mobile number?"

"No, but I will get it to him. He will call you at his earliest convenience." Kemal hummed. "If all goes as planned, how does Mediterranean sound?"

"Pardon?"

"For dinner."

Thomas rolled his eyes, but there was no denying the smile on his face.

* * *

Evelyn was_ not_ an addict. That much was certain. He was nervous and fidgety; he hadn't done something like this before, had he? Thomas furrowed his brows together as he watched him nervously go through his briefcase.

They were at a small café downtown. It was nothing special, sort of like a Starbucks but in a mom an' pop sort of way. Probably had been there for a hundred years or something. There were small tables lined against the wall and a counter for patrons to sit at. Their table was in the back, out of sight from wandering eyes.

Thomas inhaled a drag of his cigarette, leaning back against his chair. He was still coming off his high, feeling lethargic and wonderful at the same time. He blew out smoke and smirked. "You know, if you think you're being inconspicuous, then you're goin' about this the wrong way, luv. S'better to be natural."

Evelyn sighed, "I was only looking for my – er – my wallet. Kemal said to pay for breakfast."

"Oh, how charming of him," Thomas mused, blowing a ring of smoke to the ceiling. "Tell me, how'd you get involved in all this shit, Mr. Napier?"

There was a pause.

Thomas glanced at him then, seeing the rueful gaze in his eyes. His brows rose curiously.

"Kemal and I have been best mates since primary school," He laughed, "if you could believe that."

Thomas whistled. He could.

"I feel into a … situation of sorts, you see." Thomas could tell that Evelyn wasn't quite sure _why_ he was telling Thomas this, but apparently the other man trusted him enough. After all, he knew the man's story from Kemal anyway. "I wished to marry Miss Mary Crawley."

"… Robert Crawley's daughter?" Thomas asked, eyes widening slightly.

"The very same. But, you see, he wouldn't consider me a candidate for marriage since I am not of old blood, nor did I apparently have a big enough salary," He trailed off, staring into his cup. "I asked Kemal if he could… perhaps…"

Thomas understood. Fuck. He sighed, exhaling smoke through his nose.

"So did you marry her?"

Evelyn laughed softly and shook his head. "Mary is a dear, dear friend, but she was not as in love with me as I her."

"So it wasn't even worth it? Damn."

Evelyn only smiled. "And I profited off _blood money._"

What a fucking terrible situation. Thomas watched him, his facial expression, his movements. This was not a man who wanted to be in his current predicament but saw no way out. How funny it was to see that they were in similar positions. "So now you do his bidding because you're indebted to him?"

"As a matter of fact, I gave him back the money. I had no further use for it, nor did I want it. Though… as I am sure you know very well, dear Barrow, it is not easy to get out of this life."

"Look at us," Thomas said loudly, unable to help himself, "Both of us fucked up the ass with no lubricant."

At least he got a genuine laugh out of the other. "I wouldn't have put it so crudely, but yes. Exactly that." He glanced to the bag under the table. "… he – er – says you know what to do with this."

"Aye." Thomas responded, brushing away his stray strands.

Evelyn stared at him then, admiring him from afar. He spoke softly, "Be careful," and then nudged the back over to him. "I wish you the very best of luck."

Thomas met his eyes and smiled. Evelyn checked his watched. "Terribly sorry, I'm afraid I must be off. Would you like anything else?"

He downed his double espresso and shook his head, holding up a hand. "Have a good day, Mr. Napier. I do hope the future brings you good fortune."

"And I you, Mr. Barrow." Evelyn stood up, grabbing his briefcase. He gave Thomas a small smile before departing.

Thomas listened to the door close and felt so very alone. He finished his muffin and looked at his mobile, checking the time. It was nearly ten—still too fucking early. He put out his cigarette and licked his lips nervously.

"_This just might be your ticket out, Thomas," Kemal purred into his ear, "A new start. The profit from this is tremendous… and if you need someone to help you _disappear_ …"_

A new start. America. Jimmy. Maybe he could get clean again, start working at a small business, help work it to the top…

But escaping Philip was futile. The man would be able to find him, always, unless…

… unless …

"This may be our chance, Jimmy," Thomas whispered under his breath, rubbing the emotions off his face. He grabbed the bag under the table with a new determination.

He left.

* * *

There was a _lot_ of fucking heroin in that bag.

* * *

"An' look who it is."

Thomas almost turned back around, not giving a shit how many drugs were in his bag right now. The last person in the world he ever wanted to see was standing before him:

Sarah _fucking_ O'Brien.

She was higher on the hate list than Philip was. If there weren't so much at stake, Thomas would have left, not even batting a fucking eyelash. Alas, his future was in the palm of Kemal Pamuk's hands, and this was too important.

He and Sarah had an extremely complicated past. At one point, they had been best mates. Hell, she had been a motherly figure to him. They were absolutely inseparable, doing all sorts of crimes for Philip and shooting up and not giving a fuck about anyone who got in their way. But _apparently_ her nephew was thrown out of his house and school for being a druggie (or was it because he wanted to be a chef? He honestly didn't fucking care.) and she took him in and threw Thomas to the curb when he was at his worst. Though, he had to thank her, because if she hadn't thrown him out, he would have never gotten clean… would have never met Jimmy in the first place…

Rumor had it that she went back to Ireland a year ago. He hadn't cared enough to get his facts straight, but there she was, standing before him.

"Sarah," He greeted, trying to sound as jovial as he could muster—which wasn't much.

"I see yer still kissin' Philip's arse." She mocked, crossing her arms. She honestly was a pretty woman, was probably a knock-out in her prime years, but age and drugs had gotten to her. She did look a helluva a lot better than she had last time they'd seen each other. Perhaps she'd cleaned up. Her dirty blond curls were pulled into a loose ponytail, bangs falling just above her eyebrows. She was smirking with her berry-colored lips, as if she was trying to belittle him or something.

"Heard you went back to the motherland," Thomas retorted. "Your no-good nephew needed to leave the country?"

That had hit a nerve. Excellent.

O'Brien's demeanor changed instantaneously. She scowled, eyes narrowed with the utmost contempt for the man before her. It was Thomas' turn to look amused, and oh how he reveled in it.

"That's none of your business," She hissed, voice _dripping_ with venom. "You got the fuckin' bag?"

Thomas held up the black duffle bag. "Right here, sweetheart." He said, waving it as best as he could. "You got the money?"

She did.

Kemal had given him a head's up on the amount, so he counted it right in front of her. She checked the drugs—it was all some sort of respect and protocol thing. Upon realizing neither of them had been screwed over, they grunted their goodbyes.

* * *

Having a large sum of money in his possession always gave him a sense of empowerment, even if it didn't particularly belong to him. Thomas stared at the bag on his coffee table, eying it hungrily. It could honestly make him disappear without a trace if he wanted, but he wouldn't make it _that_ far if he screwed Philip over. So instead he stared and waited.

Having a large sum of money in his possession made him incredibly anxious, _especially_ when it didn't belong to him. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble on his cheeks. Perhaps he should shave before tonight… Then again, what did it matter? He began to pace, glancing back and forth to that damn bag.

Having a large sum of money –

Oh, it made him fucking crazy, because he was itching to spend it. He took the final hit of Ripozi, but instead of feeling calm and relaxed, he was out of his mind. He scratched at his arms hard enough to draw blood, with his jacket long forgotten over the side of the sofa. He was tempted to call Pamuk and just beg him to come fucking pick it up already, because it was taunting him. Philip was – it was if Philip was fucking _there_ with him, watching him with cold eyes, daring him to take a fucking bill. He couldn't do that. He couldn't let Philip control him like that.

Alas, he did in every other way, didn't he?

Thomas exhaled, taking a shot of cheap vodka to try and calm himself. He wiped away the blood and doused his face with water in the bathroom—which, in turn, made his hair fall even more out of its gel hold. With a heavy sigh, he parted the hair and let it fall as is. At least it kept some form.

He was out in the living room again, back against the floor, feet resting up against his settee. He closed his eyes.

His mobile rang.

Thomas scrambled to get it. "Where the fuck are you?" He asked, not even bothering to look at the caller ID. He closed his eyes, hoping it –

"Thomas," Kemal greeted humorously. "No need to be so… rash, darling." He chuckled. "Now, I believe you have something for me. And you believe _I_ have something for you…"

* * *

The restaurant was _very_ nice. Thomas felt underdressed even in his white attire. (Then again, it could have been because the thing was a cheap thrift shop suit.) He licked his dry lips nervously, holding the bag closely, trying to make it not so obvious that he had a lot of euros in it. However, he knew he stood out like a sore thumb, just as Evelyn had this morning in the coffee shop.

Kemal approached him, appearance impeccable. His brown hair was coiffed somewhat, and he was sporting a light moustache/goatee combination. The darkness of his hair contrasted well with his golden skin…

He was gorgeous. Thomas couldn't stop his eyes from flicking a glance down below. Pamuk was around his age, maybe even younger. He reminded Thomas of a young James Franco.

The last thing he expected Kemal to do first was kiss him. Thomas even responded a little _too_ eagerly; it had been so long since he soberly kissed someone. Kemal curled his fingers into Thomas' hair, running his tongue along those dry wine lips. He opened his mouth, gasping at the intrusion.

And just like that he was gone, leaving Thomas breathless.

"Hello, çiçeğim." The bastard had the gall to smile like that at him, with his perfect celebrity smile that melted his very core into a gooey, mushy substance.

He gaped, at a loss for words. "Kemal…"

A finger was placed upon his lips. "Shh. Come, we eat."

* * *

It was really nice. The food was good. Thomas had never had lamb before, and the way it was seasoned was just making his taste buds dance. He wished he could eat like this all the time and didn't doubt that Pamuk had the luxury. He had been very hungry when he arrived, and now he was sated, resting his chin against the table, staring idly at Kemal as he spoke about current Turkish politics—his dad was an Ambassador or something. He chimed in with his little tidbits on the current affairs that he knew.

And then Kemal grabbed his arm and brushed back the sleeve enough to see the tiny injects. He eyed them silently, rubbing his thumb against them. "You are running out, I assume?" He hummed, slowly dragging his fingers down Thomas' arm. "There are not as many little holes as I expected."

"… I try not to … do it all the time …" Thomas lied right through his fucking teeth, but he'd be damned before he let Pamuk pity him. Though he could see the man didn't fucking believe him.

"How much is another case?" He was rubbing small circles into Thomas' palm and it felt so nice…

"About … S'about two hundred pounds for a tube… I get about usually enough to last me for the month…" It was so nice as his lips grazed over his skin…

"I will buy you one. Consider it a gift," Kemal smiled softly but hungrily, his eyes sharp like a predator's, and Thomas the prey. "But I know what you really want," He released Thomas' hand and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out the plane ticket and held it up, waving it tauntingly. "This is a one-way ticket to New York," He did not hand it over when Thomas reached for it. "Patience, patience… I offer you salvation, and you will listen to my only request."

He smirked and cleared his throat while Thomas visibly deflated. "The flight is later tonight. The only thing I require from you is some company until then."

Thomas' brow suddenly rose. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, you are smarter than that, dear Thomas."

His blood turned to ice, and emotion choked him. How – how dare he? Did he think Thomas was some prostitute, fucking people for money? He'd like to think he was at least a little higher than that on the totem pole. He glanced down, feeling shame. He needed that ticket, needed Pamuk's protection. Without it, he would be an antelope out in the barren field, waiting for Philip the lion to come and sink his teeth into his neck… "But … but you said…" He felt like a child; he could barely think straight. "You promised – " A sudden confidence filled his voice, "I did what you wanted!"

"Yes, you finished the job, but that is what _Philip_ wanted. This is something _I_ did for _you_, Thomas. I believe a little thanks are in order," He was smiling. The prick was smiling; he was the hyena of the story, trying to save him from the evil Scar's clutches but still being a conniving fuck himself.

Thomas' eyes prickled with tears, and he rubbed his hands over his face, torn. If he refused, he would continue to go about this life, hoping that Philip would never come to claim his prize. But would Pamuk always call after him, asking him for favors because he saved his life? Would he always be indebted to someone? He pressed his lips together and bowed his head. "I'll – " His voice was caught in his throat. "I'll suck your cock in the bathroom." He spoke lowly, weakly. He needed to do this. It was his last hope.

Kemal smirked, "Excellent."

* * *

His back pressed against the tiny room downstairs. The bathrooms were all in private rooms, which at least helped Thomas keep some of his dignity. He moaned softly, tangling his fingers into the ebony hair of the man below him. Thomas was very good at this, wasn't he? He exhaled a soft moan, enjoying the warmth around his cock. "If you keep this up, Thomas, I won't be able to – _mm_ – last much longer. Do slow down…"

Thomas groaned and looked up at him, mouth over his tip. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at him; he was too angry, too… He wanted to get this over with, but pleasing Kemal was priority. He slowed down and paid attention to his tip, swirling his tongue around it, dipping it against his slit—which elicited quite an eager moan from the Turkish man. He felt a pet on the head and more patronization.

Kemal lasted another fifteen minutes before Thomas wanted it to be over with. He worked him quickly, massaging his scrotum, sucking hard against the tip, before he heard the loud groan of his name above him and tasted the saline seed in his mouth. He pulled away, about to go spit it out in the toilet, when –

"No. Swallow it." The hand tightened in his hair. Kemal stared down at him, grinning wickedly. He didn't let go until Thomas swallowed it down, and then he took a moment to compose himself. His trousers were up and zipped in no time, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out the ticket. He dropped it down to him and then threw a wad of cash down on the floor. "For your troubles." He laughed, ruffling Thomas' hair.

Thomas stared at the floor, sniffling, trying to control his emotions. Kemal left him alone, closing the door behind him. Thomas rubbed his arm over his eyes, feeling the onslaught of tears threatening to fall. For most of his life, people had used him, and this was no exception. He'd gotten what he wanted, but at what price? He pocketed the money and glanced at the time. The flight was for midnight. That gave him plenty of time to get ready and go.

He first threw up in the toilet, not feeling too grand after swallowing Kemal's sperm, and then left the restaurant without looking back. He was certain the other's eyes were on him, but he didn't pay him any attention. An overwhelming feeling of despair overcame him, and instead of thinking, he just did.

Thomas packed a suitcase with the little clothes he owned. He needed a high, so he took whatever he found in his medicine cabinet – a few pills that made him feel groggy. He sat on the couch, rubbing his hands over his face again, and then broke down into sobs. Part of him was happy, was elated that he was finally getting away. Another part was thinking about how terrible he had been treated—by Philip, by Kemal…

He really hoped he finally felt happiness.

Thomas drifted asleep at some point, half lying on the couch, half on the floor. His dreams were filled of Jimmy and Edward… of Philip before all of this shit happened… of the promises of New York….

Suddenly, the door slammed open, snapping awake. Thomas struggled to sit up. There were several men wearing all black, grabbing him, pinning him down. "Get the fuck off me!" He shouted, trying to punch, to kick anyone, but it was futile. They had him against the ground. "Get off, get off –" He had a plane to catch, a new life to start –

And then everything went black.

* * *

A/N: *_çiçeğim - Turkish - "my flower"_


End file.
